


Imperator

by MyckiCade



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Helplessness, Kübler-Ross model, M/M, Picking Ourselves Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:08:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far could a man like Oswald Cobblepot – already a criminal – truly fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperator

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Gotham. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: In between working on (You Can) Never Ever Leave, this idea just wouldn't let me go. So. It's quick, and simple. Enjoy!!

Swirling the wine – was it wine? He couldn't recall – in his glass, Oswald glared at the clear liquid, lip curled as though he had just looked down to discover a dead spider floating at the top. Disgusted. Appalled. Point-two seconds from vomiting. Granted, that last part was likely due to the seven or eight glasses that had come before his present one, but, he was decent at holding it back.

With a heavy sigh, Oswald slumped back into his chair, glancing up at the rest of his office with a fair amount of disinterest. He'd come up here for something, he was sure of it, something that  _hadn't_ involved polishing off a bottle-and-a-half of cheap vino, and rumpling his good suit. The damned thing was a mess, unwanted folds in his pants and jacket, a few stains of something tan (had he been at the scotch?) peppered over his dress shirt. Tie undone, hair likely a disaster... Oswald was quite certain he was a sorry sight.

Funny thing about that. He didn't actually  _care._

The funeral had turned out a surprising number of mourners, admittedly, people from all walks coming to pay their respects to a man that had played a role in each of their lives, be it in one way, or the next. Oswald hadn't pretended to know any of them, stood far enough in the back, himself, so as not to cause a scene. The air had been tense, upon his arrival, his presence...  _tolerated,_ at best, if only for the same reason. No one wanted to start up at a funeral, certainly not  _that_ funeral. Despite what anyone could have said, half of Gotham at least had that much respect enough for the deceased.

_Deceased._ The word crashed down on Oswald's barely-there consciousness, sitting heavily, until he could feel it deeper, weighing over his very bones.  _Gone._ He hadn't stayed at the cemetery even so long as to see the casket lowered into the ground. He just couldn't. Once that box had been out of sight, six feet below, handfuls of dirt ready to be tossed over top... That would have been it. The reality, it didn't sit well with Oswald. A full 'goodbye' made it  _real,_ made it something that he couldn't ignore.

_No,_ he sneered at himself, mentally. What made it all  _real_ was a bullet to the back of the skull. An execution. Some lowlife thug who thought it appropriate to take from Gotham something she couldn't afford to lose. Some _one_ that Oswald hadn't been  _prepared_ to  _lose._

Closing his eyes, Oswald pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. Jesus  _Christ,_ it was never supposed to happen, that way. He wasn't supposed to  _die,_ he was suppose to live, for _ever._ Oswald had put so much stock in the idea, the comforting belief that, no matter what happened, there would always be one constant in the world that he could count on. Someone that he wouldn't lose, someone that he had... had... Oswald clenched his eyes, tightly, against the stinging burn of oncoming tears. Oh, how he'd managed to take for granted the frail mortality of one man, of one seemingly infallible, unbeatable man. Hopeless. It was pathetic.

The half-full glass of wine was emptied in a few, steady gulps. Gasping for a breath, at the end, Oswald chose to let the wet streaks slipping down either side of his face go unchecked. Why bother? Why fight it, when, in the end, there was no need? He was allowed to mourn, to be beside himself with grief, even if that was to get the stages a bit out of order. He hadn't had a chance to bargain, couldn't afford to slip into denial, but, he sure as hell wasn't about to accept it. Anger and depression, he could work with those. And, so, the tears fell, a scream of anguish forcing its way from somewhere deep inside, somewhere that  _hurt,_ that was torn apart, and bloodied, ripped to shreds with no hope of salvage. The wine glass shattered against the edge of Oswald's desk, thrown with no regard for the expensive carpet beneath, now soaked with liquid, and riddled with glass shards. It didn't matter. It didn't  _fucking matter._ The only thing that  _did_ matter was  _gone,_ embalmed and sealed away for the rest of eternity.

Rugs could be cleaned.

Glass could be replaced.

Nothing was going to bring Jim Gordon back to him.

_Nothing._

 

. . .

 

“Butch,” Oswald called, volume forced, and still barely above a murmur. Regardless, the other man was by his side, in a second. Waiting. Obedient. “Butch, I need you to do something for me.”

The response was a quiet, expected, “Anything, Boss.”

Oswald nodded, wincing as he cleared his throat. He'd screamed himself hoarse, the night previous, before crying himself to sleep in the old armchair in the far corner of his office. He'd woken to a pounding headache, red eyes, and a purpling bruise on his forehead whose origin he still had yet to account for. But, still, there was no Jim. The urge to curl back up, and turn away the rest of the world had been a harsh temptation. A sweet one, at that.

Now, stood over a fresh mound of upturned earth, Oswald knew that there was no way to close out the reality. “No matter what happens,” he continued, eyes dancing over the writings on the headstone. “No matter what I do...” He steadied his cane, placing both hands over top of it. “Or, how I chose to do it...” Again, there was a burn at the corners of his eyes. “I need you to let me.”

Silence fell over them, for a brief moment, before Butch shifted on his feet. “What do you mean?” he asked, unsure. Oswald barely held back a wave of quiet, hysterical laughter. It sung in his head, even as he sighed.

“I need you to let me handle this problem, Butch, as I see fit. You can't que-...” Blue eyes turned skyward, staring up at a wisp of white cloud, as he tried to reign in the sudden shaking of his voice.  _You can't question it, me, not for a second._ “You just do as I ask, and that's it. No matter what I need you to do... Do you understand?”

Butch nodded, but Oswald could see from his peripheral that the movement was suspicious. Nervous. “Yes, Boss. Anything you ask.” Oswald could understand why the words were painted with doubt. Butch always did as he was asked, always. There was no reason to expect any less, now.

“Thank you,” Oswald replied, voice hushed, but polite. “Now, go start the car. I'll be along, in a minute.”

“Boss, are you sure-.” Butch stopped, mid-sentence, before giving the immediate area a quick once-over. “Right away.” He made his way back to the dirt road that would lead them back to the main stretch, and right back to the heart of Gotham City. Oswald waited until he heard the car door close, before closing his eyes, in a sigh.

“Hello, again, old friend,” he greeted, opening his eyes, once again to continue his earlier look at the headstone.

_James W. Gordon_

_Beloved son and friend._

_Devoted protector of Gotham._

_We honor your sacrifice._

Oswald bit back a scoff. If ever a greater lie had been written. Gotham would never honor the man's sacrifice, not properly. It would be spoken of, for a time, whispered about, for a while after, before fading from the collective memory of the citizens Jim had worked so hard to look after.  _Devoted protector,_ now, that part was terribly fitting. But, it left the question, who would be there to look after the city, now?

“I can't stay. So much to do. You know how busy a life of crime is, if only from your daily contact with the locals.” He nearly winced. Morbid as it was to even entertain, it seemed that Oswald was even worse off in conversing with the dead, than with the living. “Listen... I can't change what happened. And, I'm sorry that it's taken me an extra day to come close enough to see you.” He paused, laughing at himself, bitterly. “A closed casket, and I couldn't even pull myself together, long enough, to...”  _Water under the bridge, now,_ he thought, and shook his head. “Whoever did this to you, I want you to know that they won't be breathing, for much longer. Once I learn names,” he promised, “you will have your justice.”

Glancing away, briefly, Oswald fought back the sudden, painful urge to drop to his knees, and cry. No, he wouldn't do such a thing as that, not with Butch so close by. He could make it through this, he would be fine,  _breath in, breath out._

“You weren't supposed to abandon us,” he whispered.  _You weren't supposed to abandon_ me. “I know, you didn't ask for it, but, I...” Swallowing against a lump in his throat, Oswald shifted back on his heels, turning back toward the car. Before he started off, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I hope that you'll forgive me. I must be off. For now.” With a deep breath, Oswald squared his shoulders, and made his way back across the grass, weaving between plots, respectfully. He couldn't have said another word to James, lest his reaction appear weakened. No, there were many tasks to be done, and Oswald knew just what he needed to do.

Conscience would be ignored. Fear, unacknowledged. Acceptance was a bloody road, one paved in vengeance, and traveled by those with a stomach to reach it. Whether luckily, Oswald had little – and, yet, everything - to lose.

 


End file.
